


Please

by Badfaith



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, seadwellers in panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badfaith/pseuds/Badfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You love it when he comes. You think you love it more than when you come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please

**Author's Note:**

> Equidan smut one-shot for me, and also my moirail, but mostly for me. <3

Equidan smut one-shot for me, and also my moirail, but mostly for me. <3

He asks you take off his undergarments with your teeth. It’s not a command, but you do it anyway, with just as much eagerness, without even having to pretend he was bossing you. You watch him when he swipes his tongue over his full lips, which are bleeding because you have bitten them, and when he bumps his groin up against your mouth, another silent little _please,_ is emphasized in the tense silence between you. You bite down on the sleek, shiny fabric and with a jerk of your head you drag it down. You’re proud that you can do it without ripping the fabric now. It slips down his wide hips so pleasantly, like it couldn’t wait to come off.

No, not a command, not even close.

Your bulge is a hard, incriminating presence, suffocating angrily in your shorts, already almost fully unsheathed and your mind is panting more than your mouth is, a beating inhale- exhale of pleases.

 _Please, please, please_ he mutters, with a fuckin’ occasionally thrown in the middle. He’s worrying over the words like a barkbeast chewing on a bone as you stubbornly pull your head back to get a good look at him. His bulge is erect and flushed deep in that color you hate to admit is so beautiful and yet write embarrassing poetry about in private. It’s dripping violet fluid. You have a suspicion the panties he was wearing were soaked before you took them off, and when your gaze travels down to his exposed nook, how wet he is there too, you are robbed of all remaining doubts.

You breathe in his scent first, of course. You always do, and he wiggles impishly, half rocking on his heels. You don’t leave him that way for long but you savor it, the way he’s pressing his long slender legs together and growling in childish impatience with twitching fins and blown pupils. You press your mouth to him, to the warmest point on his cool body and immediately spread him open with a lap of your tongue. He spreads so easily under your tongue. This sensitive part of his body is just as much himself as every other part and you love it.

Eridan moans at that like he’s complaining and the pleases seem to die for a while, but it’s only because he can’t form words anymore. The noises he makes are surf-shaped, they bob and roll in pitch. Sometimes he sounds so plaintive, so girlish, and sometimes you hear that roughness in the back of his throat that reminds you that your lover is a vicious monster. A sailor. Pirate-spawn. The pleases are still there in the whines you hear when you start to lap into him rhythmically, sometimes forcing yourself to slow and make your sticky way back up to the base of his bulge. You suckle that too, mouth around his sheath with your cold teeth and nip at it carefully. He squeals at that, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love that reaction.

After a few indulgent moments of simply shivering as you make a meal of him, he brings a shaking hand to your head, dragging it through your hair. Eridan grasps your remaining horn so firmly you mumble terribly impolite phrases into his nook. You didn’t used to curse so much, he did this to you.

He’s got these soft, slender highblood hands that can hold an intelligent conversation- not simply gripping so tight it chokes your nerves the way your kismeises will do at times but fanning out and fucking stroking you as if your horn was a bulge. He has this way of getting up under the arrow cap where you’re most sensitive and rubbing hard with the pad of his thumb that makes you weak in the knees- so much so that you thank the Mother you’re already on them.

Soon the way you lick him turns shallow and sloppy, purple escaping and dribbling down your chin. That’s when he decides to pull back from you, leaving you to sit there dizzily. You unsuccessfully attempt to bite down a groan that comes from deep in your chest- he’s done this pinching thing with the tip of your horn that you just cannot abide. It’s against all your rules.

You cannot have shorts on, the situation has become critical. However, before you can make a move to change it, Eridan is sinking down and straddling you. You love the practiced, almost stylish way he does that, and privately enjoy your horse allusions.

You feel, so vividly feel the way his nook trembles when it slides across your bare belly. Your bulge twitches again. The noise that’s making this deafening racket in the back of your ears becomes so loud that you don’t even register it anymore, it simply pulsates like every other part of you, and him, the two of you.

You relent and lean back on your big arms, feeling your abdomen relax, although not relieved of tension. He’s the one that starts undoing your shorts. It marvels you that he has enough patience to unhook the button and drag them down. The way he’s sitting on you, grinding against your belly and crotch just reduce all your thoughts to maddening, thrust-like dips and elevations.

You thank the Mother yet again when he frees you, but he gives you a look that means he wants you thanking him, and only him. The two of you make eye contact. He’s starting to get a little color in his eyes, just the barest tint of purple starting to break the gray and yellow. They are bright and glinting with interest. They remind you more of a bird of prey than a fish. At the moment you are sure your eyes are half lidded or more lidded and could likely not glint with interest if they were threatened with extraction.

He grinds up against you again, and this time you can feel his wetness against the tip of your bulge, and you rock your hips up to meet him but do not penetrate. You wish you had a view of his ass when he rolls his hips like that, but what you have is probably more than you deserve.

He does it again. No, this is all definitely and tragically undeserved.

He’s so lovely, it’s not fair. You’re trying to watch him all at once, his eyes, the way his lips press together, the way the shadows shift with his muscles. You reach up and feel around blindly until you find his waist and hold him there, but he rocks in a way that stutters your breathing anyway. The only gesture of control you try to have is fake, fake fake.

He is strong, in a different way than you are, but strong nonetheless.

When he bears down on you and penetrates himself, crying out at the thickness of the stretch, you give up and close your eyes. He’s so good, he tries to take you so eagerly every time even though he knows it’s a slow process, sometimes painful, especially after the fact. He doesn’t care. He’s so hungry for it. He wants to take it all at once and sometimes you don’t have the self control to stop him.

You are cursed. Self control is not your strong point.

It always seems like hours when he’s finally filled up with you. You are finally so deep inside him you don’t remember what it’s like to be out of him, to not be gripped by his slickness and squeezed by his greedy body. His hands slide on your sweaty skin, pressing you down and he leans, back and forth, getting comfortable on you.

There’s a second where the two of you just pant like animals mating, and in the next he’s riding you, hard and fast. Just the way you love to be ridden. Everything is a push and pull of pleasure and his cooler breathe on your skin. When you arch up hard at the random interval he gibbers and almost screams. You’ve learned, slowly, not to be afraid, it means you hit him just right inside There is deep satisfaction in his noises, his changes in breathing, the way his gills will flare.

 _Please, please, please_. It’s still _please_ , all the time.

For the most part, he will take control, and you enjoy that. You let him use you for his own pleasure. You’d feel like a toy and be no less happy about it, if it wasn’t for the way he always leans his forehead into your sweat sleeked one and opens his eyes. Somehow you always open your eyes in time to catch his too. It’s like holding hands as you rut together furiously.

You love it when he comes. You think you love it more than when you come.

You always try to make sure he comes first, starting to thrust up more persistently when his seemingly bottomless energy flags, when he tries to slow down you don’t let him. This time he comes twice before you do, and it’s not abnormal for him to come more (nor for any troll). He coats your belly with splashes of purple, and you still don’t assume he’s done before it’s over.

When you finally climax, it’s a big slow ordeal and the both of you are a sweaty, regrettable mess by the end of it. You always feel so raw and clumsy when you shout, like a train coming to a rough stop. It’s the final break in your silence and it clears your mind so blissfully of it’s persistent contradictions.

You’re so sweaty, but he crawls on you anyway. He doesn’t mind the mess as long as there is always a shower after, but at the moment both of you are unconcerned with moving more than absoloutely necessary. The only comedic attempt you make is trying to kiss with tremblingly unresponsive lips.

His fingers got in your hair at some point, you don’t know when, they ponderously, slugglishly comb themselves out and then fall limp. Both his arms are wrapped around your shoulders. He tucks his head into your chest and you always hold him. You have to hold just as much as he has to be held.

 _Please_ \- you think, _please_.


End file.
